


Analgesic

by settledownfrohike



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Episode s02e07 Three, F/M, Fox Mulder Angst, Implied Fox Mulder/Dana Scully, Missing Scene, Mulder/Other, My First Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 17:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12040311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/settledownfrohike/pseuds/settledownfrohike
Summary: They'd pretended, at first, to be lovers.





	Analgesic

They’d pretended, at first, to be lovers. He’d opened his mouth to her immediately and without preamble, inhaled her deeply, smothering his own hyperawareness with her scent and her taste. Foreplay was rehearsed and careful. She wiped shaving cream in his ears and he pretended not to be annoyed. Sex right now felt like an indulgence he hadn’t earned, and what he needed was a distraction, an analgesic. He needed adrenaline and dopamine flooding his veins to get him high and far, far away from here. And she wasn’t riding him nearly hard enough for that. She kept trying to capture his eyes, willing him to look at her her. But her gate was too lazy, her clenching too purposeful; her touch had the feel of a paid professional. He undulated dutifully beneath her, accomplishing nothing.

Mulder could tell when she realized. She stopped rocking and craned downward, her warm, metallic breath coming closer to his cheek. He’d been pressing the side of his face into the pillow in feigned ecstasy, trying to channel his frustration into sensation, directing his focus out of his head and down to his groin, willing it to follow the path of his circulation. Her nails scratched lightly behind his ears and her nipples grazed his own.

Clearly this wasn’t doing it for either of them. This wasn’t what she wanted from him. This wasn’t what he wanted from her. Not really. She smiled sadly and traced the gentle curves of his chest, and he began to feel guilty for encouraging this mistake in the first place.

“What do you want?” she asked seductively, eyes heavy lidded and dancing with amusement, a look that must have taken years to perfect. 

“I—I don’t know.” The honesty made it’s way past his lips before his brain could form a lie and she rolled her eyes, and kissed him, her throaty laugh tickling his uvula. She sucked in his lower lip, a consistent favorite amongst his lovers, he’d noted—-all of this was just so painfully predictable. And then she bit down. Hard. Hard enough that he knew she’d drawn blood. He tore his mouth away and tested the mangled flesh, happy to find it intact and gaped at her incredulously as she licked the bright redness from her lips, but found her face full of remorse instead of satisfaction.

Old habits. Yes, he understood that. They were both such clearly and pitifully fucked up individuals.

At this point he became determined to make someone feel good, feel better, even if that someone wasn’t himself. He flipped her under him and wrapped his hands across her inner thighs, kneading the flesh and pushing them so far apart she yelped and the tendons at her groin lay taught and exposed. He could see her abdominals quivering in his peripheral. Her pussy was as lean as the rest of her, nothing particularly puffy or soft, just clean anatomy and glistening arousal. The frills of her inner labia, engorged to a shade of shadowed plum looked particularly sensitive, so he teased and nipped gently, occasionally dipping his tongue into her core, she shifted and stroked the back of his neck. Her clitoris stood erect, making itself known like an over-eager pupil, begging for attention. Latching on to the bundle of nerves, he suckled lightly, rhythmically, and pumped her with two fingers until he heard a guttural moan and felt the telltale contractions around his chin.

Mulder-1

Kristin-0

Taking advantage of her post orgasmic state he flipped her prostrate, and she went willingly too, all of her body language screaming, “finally”. He gathered her up, curling his fingers around angular hips and hoisted her ass to his crotch possessively, dragging his semi hard cock up from clit to anus and back again, gathering her arousal, gathering nerve. For a split second he thought about calling it good, crawling away and mumbling an apology, but in the end he decided to tell caution to go fuck itself– he was busy fucking someone else at the moment. He wanted this to be reckless and he wanted to treat himself carelessly. He wanted to stand at the edge of a cliff and tempt the wind to push him over. Scully would never forgive his deliberant self-destruction, but she couldn’t technically fault him if he only did eighty percent of the job.

Upon the second trip up, she pushed back with a clear purpose, and glanced darkly over her shoulder. Their eyes made contact, and he felt almost giddy at its implications. So that’s what the lady wants. As if reading his mind she pushed back again, mouth slightly agape like an amateur porn star. Fucking her this way felt ok. It felt…allowed. It was contrary and illicit and befitting. Suddenly he was rock hard again, and incredibly eager.

He spanned his left hand across her lower back while his right middle finger went to work, spreading lubricant, applying pressure, testing her limits. Soon enough she was writhing with one finger, begging with two…his dick throbbed painfully but was easily ignored. He was now finally, blindly, blissfully focused on something he knew he could do well. To hell with all his failures. His left hand made its way down to massage her slick pussy, while his right middle and index fingers slid in and out, his palm setting up steady rhythm against her cheeks. Her body began to sway back into him, increasing his pace as her juices dripped from his fingers. Her minky hair tossed to and fro, and her whines became desperate. He could tell she was becoming impatient. “Easy now…..easy….” he breathed, stilling her like a skittish colt.

He withdrew his fingers and thoroughly coated his cock in her wetness by dragging it through her folds and she waited, hands flat against the wall, a fine sheen of sweat burnished the quaking muscles of her back in the moonlight. Her spine arched and swayed like a suspension bridge. He placed his cock at her entrance and pushed forward with agonizing slowness, stopping when he felt her tense. Again his left hand went to work, one finger massaging the bump of engorged spongy tissue along the front of her vaginal wall, his thumb gliding along the side of her clitoris slowly, but purposefully. She breathed a long, low moan into the pillow and began to relax around him. He pushed deeper, using every ounce of restraint he had not to pound wildly into her like an animal, the need for his own release wrapping itself under and around his balls, squeezing like a vice, demanding a reckoning. Buried finally to the hilt, the crisp thatch of his pubic hair grazed her tail-bone, and he heard her hiss, then groan,

“Fuck.” 

Mulder was panting now, nostrils flared, leering at the obscene visual as he withdrew in small increments, then plunged back in, one thumb spreading her savagely and the other’s ministration to her clit becoming more circular, more forceful. “Fuck!” she shouted, clawing at the bed, and he grinned indulgently at his ability to reduce an intelligent woman to expressive aphasia. 

One, two, three authoritative thrusts, enough to send his sac swaying into her labia and she was contracting and wailing and shivering around him. He envied her release. One more, and with a growl he threw his head back and let the blackness suck him deep and under, reveling in each pulse as it flowed into her depths.

He came to awareness still atop her, though she’d flattened to the bed at some point. Sufficiently flaccid, he slid carefully from her and onto his belly. Post orgasmic endorphins still reigned and they stared, stoned, into each other and past each other, both relishing in the way their nerves hummed banally, a kind of white noise for the soul. She would be the first to break away, shifting her face away to the opposite wall, effectively drawing into herself and allowing him the solitude he suddenly desperately craved. The post-carnal anesthesia came followed by a heavy sedative, and he didn’t fight.

He awoke less than an hour later to faint sirens in the distance, and a vengeful, angry glow on the horizon. He drug himself upright, ignoring the tightness in his throat and began to gather his clothes. Something like dread began to pool cold in his belly and he fought angrily against it for a moment and then flopped into a bedside chair, his shirt barely buttoned and un-tucked. He wasn’t going anywhere, but he couldn’t stay next to her. He absently watched the shadowed curve of her waist flex and contract as she slept, grinding his teeth, his jaw jutted out petulantly as he searched for the source of his discomfort, wanting to draw it forth, wring it out and call it by it’s name. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t feel worthy of the sense of decency that left room for shame. The frat boy in him felt indignant and disgusted, wanting to flush her and this town and this case away like a used condom, the cop in him–frozen in place by duty. What he was—was lonely. He was used to being alone, with only his cause to keep him company like his shadow– dark, persistent and intangible. Now though, he was truly lonely.

A sardonic smile twisted his features as he thought of what Scully might say if he called her right now. He’d have done it too, and she’d have shown up, barley hiding her hurt and betrayal with feigned indifference and prophylactics jokes that would have fallen flat. God he missed her. It was that most of all. It was his own selfish physical need and the main reason, if he was honest, that he wanted her back– more than justice, more than knowing. He wanted her voice on the phone and the thought of her warm skin and the gaze of her melancholy, credulous eyes. And that goddamned superior eyebrow that he could count on above all else to shit all over his bad habits and his eccentric theories. He wanted to curl up awkwardly in her passenger seat like a drunken co-ed, engulfed by her presence. She was his hall monitor and complicit enabler. He’d grown to crave that balance like a mother’s touch, a lover’s caress, a soul mates understanding. 

The shadow in the bed shifted, rustling the sheets. He remembered with a start where he was and felt a manic chuckle begin to bubble inside his chest at his waking delusion. Unable to stifle it, he buried his face in his hands, pressing his fingers into his sockets in an attempt to extinguish the giddiness but in the darkness saw Her face, glaring up at her assailant, gagged and bound in and terrified and defiant. And then again—studying him over a manila folder (in the blue glare of a slide show, over a wilted salad at a late night diner) with bemusement, tolerance and something that looked and felt a lot like unconditional love. The chuckle soured as it reached his throat and poured into his mouth as sobs, silent and painfully wretched from the depths of his very being. His shoulders shook violently in restraint until lack of oxygen required the draw of breath. He covered his mouth in an attempt to keep the quiet, but the figure in the dark already had her eyes on him, and the look in them meant she understood.

Suddenly he was exhausted, the emotional strain from his thoughts and the physical exertion from sex having taken its toll. He could do no more than glance back at her shamefully, and then back at the floor.

”I’ll get you a drink.“ She said, voice a bit smokier than before, rising from the mattress. He leaned back without protest and followed her with throbbing eyes across the bedroom to her dresser…. and was out cold again before the t-shirt fell past her waifish hips.


End file.
